


proximity (to winning, to you)

by monogalya



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Teachers, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 07:38:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17442704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monogalya/pseuds/monogalya
Summary: ‘We’re both teachers and at the end of the year we compare how many gifts we’ve received from students and you’ve won for the past three years’ AU





	proximity (to winning, to you)

**Author's Note:**

> pulled from a list of job AUs on cup-of-hot-coffee’s [tumblr](http://cup-of-hot-coffee.tumblr.com/post/118599158660/job-aus).
> 
> i feel obligated to write for these two each time i rewatch this movie

Gaby knows that this year will be it. It has to be. This year will be the year she receives the most gifts and finally defeats Illya Kuryakin. She has more students than in previous years and she is raking in the gifts. They’re stuffed in the drawers and the closet in her office. She can’t explain the sudden growth of students’ interest in dance and mechanics, but she isn’t complaining. Admittedly she has more pupils to handle which meant more projects to grade and more hours spent overlooking dance practices, correcting posture and stances, and giving pointers on presentation and movement, but it was worth it. She takes pleasure in seeing her students succeed, fail, and grow. And, she will take even more pleasure in seeing the look on her favorite Russian colleague’s face when they do their end of the year gift count and she comes out on top. She’s looking forward to that day when she can smile down at his handsome face and claim her bragging rights. She will have to stand on a piece of furniture to accomplish this because of Illya’s annoying staggering height (she has put some thought into this), but it ultimately won’t matter to her because she will have won and she will take the opportunity to be triumphant and unapologetically smug about it.

The competition started out quite lighthearted, not a contest at all, just a group of teachers chatting about the presents they had received from their students. Of course, one can always count on Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin to turn nothing into something, easy conversation into fueled competition. They are both esteemed and hardworking professors, Solo teaching American art, famous copies and forgeries, and a riveting course on art theft, security, and heists, while Illya runs the Russian Studies department, teaches various classes in Russian history and literature, and trains the school’s renowned chess team. Before they knew it, the teachers were following Solo and Kuryakin to their respective offices to observe as they counted their gifts. Solo had enough of an audience already, so Gaby wandered off to her office, conveniently next to Solo’s, and counted her gifts unaccompanied by onlookers. By the time Napoleon proudly announced a total of 99 presents, Gaby reappeared at the doorway of his office and promptly told him that she had three more than he did.

“And you?” Napoleon said, gesturing behind her and causing Gaby to realize the presence of Illya standing in the hallway, towering over her.

“110,” Illya responded, expressionless as usual.

Napoleon chuckled at Gaby’s miffed look. “I guess we both lose this round, Ms. Teller.”

And so began their yearly competition. Other teachers were part of the contest, too, but when they noticed that Solo, Kuryakin, and Teller consistently had the highest counts, they backed out permanently. They were pretty much an established trio anyway. Soon enough Napoleon picked up on Gaby’s personal crusade to best Illya in student gifts and graciously stepped out. He was always third place, far from winning. But Gaby refused to let Illya win year after year, which is how they ended up in their current annual situation.

They meet after classes end in a vacant classroom and push the tables and chairs to the edges of the room to clear out the center. Once there is enough space, they lug their gifts from their offices and scatter them across the floor. They count how many they have, then switch sides and count the other’s gifts to make sure the counts are accurate. The winner gets to annoy the loser with their bragging rights while they eat lunch on the classroom floor and admire their presents.

Gaby finds it very enjoyable, disregarding the fact that she has yet to win. It’s the post-semester bliss, knowing that the year is over and most of the hard work is finished. It’s getting to enjoy a leisurely lunch without worrying about marking papers or meeting with students who are worried about their performance in class. It’s unwrapping the gifts and reading the cards from her students. Some of them are generic thank-yous, goodbyes, and enjoy-the-summers, but others are heartfelt messages that remind her that she is appreciated for her work. She knows that it’s foolishly romantic of her, but there is a magical feeling that washes over her when she receives a gift that is so thoughtful that it proves that she formed genuine connections with her students. Of course, this is a rare occurrence, but certainly not unwelcome. And it’s not just her. She has spent enough time opening gifts with Illya to know the look on his face when he receives a particularly meaningful note or present.

One morning last year Gaby walked past a heinously battered car in the faculty parking area. Immediately recognizing the vehicle, she marched to the owner’s office and found him slouching at his desk, staring at the chess game set up in front of him, not a single piece moved. She meant to ask Illya what had happened to his car.

“What happened to you?” she said.

“Car accident,” he replied. When he looked up and noticed her concerned expression, he added with the weakest, most insincere smile she had ever seen from him, “Small. It was nothing.”

“Right.” Gaby nodded as if understanding. “So you got in a minor car crash that damaged your windows, a door, your tail lights, and your hood, while you have no injuries at all?”

He blinked before answering. “No. I was not in my car.”

“Ah. Then your car was hit from all sides by four different vehicles on the same day? Tell me, where did you park it?”

Gaby knew he was lying, or at the very least, hiding something from her, but he looked too worn out to argue and more visibly unhappy than usual. She checked her phone, not caring for his response.

“I have a class to teach,” she said.

Gaby spun around and left, but not before noticing that Illya’s left wrist was missing a watch.

She went out drinking with Solo that night. Mostly it was her watching Napoleon flirt with the pretty bartender while Gaby slowly finished up a bottle of gin. This did not go unnoticed by Solo who pulled the glass from her hands midway through the night. Gaby swung her fists weakly at him, trying to get her drink back. Their trip to the bar ended with a broken nose for Napoleon. Gaby lost her balance and fell headfirst onto bar countertop and her cheekbone stung badly, but she was still giggling when they stumbled out of the bar, Napoleon carrying most of her weight with one of her arms slung around his back. He wiped the blood from his nose, then his eyes caught on something on the ground and they stopped walking.

“Huh. That’s interesting,” he said. “ Sorry sweetheart, I’ve got to put you down for just a second.”

Napoleon let go of Gaby and while she struggled to stand upright, he bent down to pick something up from the ground.

“What is it?” Gaby asked while he helped her stand again.

“Our good friend’s watch.” He held up Illya’s wristwatch for her to see.

Gaby squinted at it, waiting for her vision to clear up. It was Illya’s watch, only the glass was broken and the hands weren’t moving.

Napoleon took the liberty of removing Gaby’s purse from her shoulder and slipping the wristwatch into the bag.

“What are you doing?” Gaby said.

“Well, you’re the mechanic,” he replied.

An intoxicated Gaby shrugged. He was right.

“And he does seem to like you more,” Napoleon added with a wink.

Two weeks later Gaby was sitting across from Illya, watching him open his presents. The Russian sap brought an actual picnic blanket to lay on the floor this time. And it was nice. The afternoon sunlight poured in through the classroom windows, warming their skin and casting shadow copies of them on the ground. Gaby had taken off her shoes and stretched her bare legs in front of her while she ate a cold sandwich and drank some Italian sparkling drink she found at the grocery store.

Illya had won again. He beat her by six gifts. It would have been five, but Gaby couldn’t help but notice how mopey he had been during the final weeks which were always the heaviest in terms of workload and stress. She looked away, pretending not to care when she saw him pick up the slim red box. She tried, but she ended up returning her gaze to him, and watched intently as he opened the box and pulled out his father’s watch.

Unlike Solo, Illya wasn’t a materialistic man. He doesn’t get excited over a tasteful tie or expensive shoes. Gaby wonders sometimes if he even keeps all of his gifts or if he thought they took up too much space in his home. The only gift Gaby has seen him use regularly is a miniature chess set. The teachers were at a formal dinner and while people were dancing and socializing, Illya sat alone in a relatively quiet corner with the miniature chess set balanced on his right leg, pondering which move to make next. It was a shame. The suit he was wearing was quite fitting, and he looked good. At the time Gaby had imagined, idly while holding her glass, what it would be like to dance with him, his big arms around her, swaying together in time with the music.

Immediately, Illya’s eyes widened in disbelief. He flipped the wristwatch over with his large hands, checking the front and the back, running his fingers along the straps and the metal.

Illya looked directly at her, pinned her with a gaze so intense she was taken aback for a moment. It was only a moment, though. She quickly met his eyes with the same unwavering intensity.

“Something wrong?” she asked innocently.

He glanced back at the gift. “This is my father’s watch.”

“So?”

“I lost it weeks ago.”

Illya turned his attention to the gift box where Gaby knew he wouldn’t find a note, card, name, or any other trace of the gifter. She made sure of that.

To keep herself busy, Gaby reached for another one of her gifts. She put down her glass and began to unwrap. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Illya give up on the box, toss it to the floor, and shake his head in frustration. Then he stilled during a moment of realization and turned to face her again.

“Gaby,” he said.

She ignored him and continued to tear apart the orange gift wrap. She dug through the tissue paper, making sure not to look in his direction.

“Ah,” she said. “A pair of sunglasses. How chic.” She put them on, thinking they would make it easier to face Illya.

“Gaby,” he repeated, more stern than before.

“Yes?” she said, finally turning to him.

Somehow he was still able to look right into her eyes despite the shades. She was determined not to let it throw her off guard this time.

“Thank you,” Illya said. “For the gift.”

So the clever Russian figured it out. Well. No use in denying it.

“Solo was the one who found it,” she said.

The way Illya kept looking at her, it was as if he completely dismissed that piece of information. Or that he didn’t care.

“It was broken. You are mechanic,” he said.

At that, Gaby huffed, smiling to herself. He and Solo were so ironically similar, but neither of them knew it. She removed her sunglasses and put them back in the box.

“You were not afraid to let me win?” Illya asked.

“You won by five gifts anyways,” Gaby said.

“You knew this?”

She shrugged. The truth was that as soon as she repaired the watch she began to keep a close eye on any gifts that went Illya’s way. Once she got a rough estimate of how many gifts he had already received, she surrendered her gift with confidence, knowing he would win regardless. She didn’t tell him this though. And she definitely wouldn’t tell him that if even if she could have won, she probably still would have given him the watch.

“Of course,” she said.

They sat in silence before Illya spoke up.

“It was robbery,” he admitted. “Three men came up to my car. They broke the windows and told me to step out and give them my valuables or else they would kill me.”

“And then?”

“Two got the beating they deserved, one ran away with the watch. I thought I lost it forever, but thankfully not.”

Illya smiled, then put his father’s watch back where it belonged with a content look on his face. He checked the time, then frowned.

“The hands are not moving,” he said.

Gaby’s heart stopped. She had fixed the watch herself. She had taken time out of grading final projects to properly repair it.

“No. That’s not possible,” she said.

Forgetting all manners and respect for personal space, she lunged towards Illya, grabbing his wrist. She had pushed off the ground with too much strength and the lunge turned into a tackle and she took him down with her and they slammed onto the floor together, but she couldn’t care less. Gaby raised Illya’s wrist and looked at the time. The hands were moving, the time was accurate, and Illya was chuckling beneath her.

Gaby rolled her eyes and huffed, blowing a strand of hair away from her eyes, while Illya still had that proud, laughing smile on his face.

“This is funny?” she asked, glaring down at him.

She tightened her grip on his wrist and realized how small she was in comparison to him. Her fingers couldn’t quite go all the way around his wrist, but that didn’t stop her. Gaby was more in control now than ever, and she wasn’t ready to let go. Her other hand pinned his shoulder to the floor and she used her weight to hold him down so that all he could do was stay there and pay attention at her.

She was charged with determination, though she didn’t quite know what for. He made her thoughts hazy sometimes.

“You’re trembling,” Illya said.

Gaby hadn’t noticed. Slowly, Illya placed one hand on her shoulder and the other at her hip to steady her. There was a hitch in her breath and she began to wonder if she wanted to stay like this, or if she wanted to succumb to gravity and fall in towards him.

She never got to make that specific decision because at the sounds of footsteps approaching and wheels rolling on the floor, she immediately let go of her colleague and put a work-appropriate distance between them. By the time the custodian entered the room, they were once again just two colleagues having lunch together.

Gaby dwells on that day, especially as the end of the academic year draws nearer and nearer. Sometimes Gaby thinks of that day as a missed opportunity. Other times it serves as a reminder of what it looks like when Illya truly appreciates a gift. Not that he’s getting one from her this year. Not a chance.

Napoleon drops by her office on a late night during finals week claiming he needs a break from grading. Having neighboring offices with Napoleon has its perks, but him always being around to pester her is not one of them. He helps himself to a cup of coffee and takes a seat on the other side of her desk.

“Need something?” Gaby says, not lifting her eyes from the paper before her.

“Just wanted to ask how many gifts you’ve collected so far,” he says.

Gaby huffs. “I should have known you’d stoop so low as to spy for Illya.”

Solo grins, but shakes his head. “No. I wouldn’t betray you, I’m just being my curious self.”

“Well, stop. I’m busy.”

“I’m bored.”

Gaby sighs. “If you’re that desperate to avoid grading, why don’t you go distract Illya and ask him how many gifts he has?”

Napoleon frowns. “He locks his door.”

Gaby rolls her eyes. She knows for a fact that a lock door has never stopped Solo before.

“And,” he continues, “he angers easily at unwelcome guests. I think you’d have better chances.”

He flashes a sly grin at her and Gaby wants to interrogate him about what he’s implying, but she buries the urge.

“Napoleon, get back to work,” she says instead.

She doesn’t speak or look in his direction again and he leaves eventually, but he returns hours later, just when Gaby is packing up her belongings to head home. She looks at Solo, exasperated.

“What do you want?”

“I think it’s more about what you want, sweetheart.”

With both hands, he holds out a blue box towards her. She glances at it. The box can fit a designer bag. Or a textbook. She stops herself from wondering what the contents of the box are and shakes her head.

“No, I’m not using you to win,” she says.

Napoleon places the box on her desk anyways. “Trust me, you’re gonna need this.”

“I don’t want your help,” she says defensively.

“Thank me later,” he says and walks out the door.

“Prick,” she says as he waves goodbye.

She adds the box to her stash of gifts in her closet before leaving.

 

* * *

 

They meet in a different room this time, on the highest floor so that the janitor takes longer to get to their room. Which is appropriate, Gaby thinks, because they will have more presents to count this year, and because she will make sure to spend a proper (and deserved) amount of time gloating. Illya lays the picnic blanket down after they finish pushing the tables and chairs to the peripheries of the room. As usual, they have to make several runs to move their gifts from their offices to the room. Just as Gaby is ready to make her second journey back to her office, Illya enters the room, his giant arms almost overflowing with gift boxes and bags, some of which Gaby hadn’t seen before and therefore did not account for in her estimate of how many gifts her colleague had received.

He sets down the presents with a smirk. “Concerned?”

“No,” Gaby says in the most even tone she can manage.

When Gaby makes her final run to her office, she empties her closet of gifts. Her eyes land on the blue box Napoleon had given her. She brings it along too. Just in case, she tells herself.

She later realizes that she does in fact need Napoleon’s gift.

“So, how many do you have?” she asks.

“111. What about you?”

Gaby has 109 presents and was proud to have beat her personal record, but now she isn’t feeling so accomplished. She quickly adds Napoleon’s box to the count, and that becomes 110 total, which means that she is one gift away from a tie.

“110,” she says, trying her best to hide her agitation.

“Off by one present. That is the closest you have ever been,” Illya says.

Illya sounds happy, and when Gaby looks up he is actually smiling. This nearly breaks Gaby, who is conflicted. The simple quirk of the lips on his face is simultaneously endearing and disgusting. She is torn between her need to win and whatever it is she feels towards Illya.

She shakes her head, not ready to accept this outcome. “No. We haven’t counted each other’s piles yet. We need to be sure before we declare a winner.”

Without waiting for his reply, Gaby marches over to his side and begins to count Illya’s presents. It takes a moment, but Illya soon does the same for her.

Gaby huffs after she finishes counting. “111,” she says, disappointed.

She places a hand on her hip as she waits for Illya to complete the count. They have never been this evenly matched before. She gets closer each year, and she thought that this was her year, and now she isn’t so sure.

“110,” he says when he’s done.

She swears in German.

“Gaby,” Illya begins to speak, but she isn’t listening.

“I want a recount,” Gaby says, even though she knows that it won’t do any good. Her brain tells her to admit defeat, but her legs are already moving.

Gaby starts to storms back to her side, but Illya stands in her way. She crosses her arms.

“Let me through,” she demands.

“We are not doing recount,” he says.

Gaby is ready to fight him, or at least verbally argue, but Illya speaks first.

“Maybe you’re missing one.”

He isn’t making any sense to Gaby, and it’s getting on her nerves.

“What are you talking about?” she says.

Illya holds out two closed fists towards her, and it takes Gaby a second to realize that it is a non-threatening gesture. This is not an invitation to a fistfight.

“Maybe I got you present,” he says.

Gaby is speechless as Illya waves both fists in front of her, then shakes the left one, and then the right, gesturing for her to make a decision.

She clears her mind, tells herself to stay calm, and chooses left. Illya turns over his fist and reveals a small box that Gaby is surprised can fit comfortably in Illya’s hand.

“Go on, open it,” he says.

Inside the box is a pair of earrings. They are simple, black and white, and Gaby knows they will match her wardrobe. More importantly, Gaby also knows that she now has 111 gifts.

“So we’re tied then,” she says.

A tie in and of itself is a record and an accomplishment. It has never been done before.

But, her colleague makes a sound that expressed disagreement. She glances up at him.

“One more gift,” he says.

“What is it?”

“An invitation.”

“To?”

“Dinner. With me. Wherever you would like.”

Gaby tries to hide her amusement. This is the last thing she expected, even if she speculated that deep down her reserved Russian colleague is a romantic, but she is pleasantly surprised that the shy man made the first move. She hums while she is thinking.

“And if I say no?” she asks.

Illya scans her eyes carefully. “Then we would be tied, and you would not win this year. Again.”

Despite herself, Gaby lets a smile escape. She steps closer to Illya. “Then I guess I can’t refuse,” she says and accepts her 112th gift.

“Wonderful,” he says.

Their eyes are locked on each other, Gaby can feel his hand sliding up her arm to rest under her chin, and she’s waiting for the moment when they breathe in the same thin air, but through the heady atmosphere, a previously-forgotten thought crosses her hazy mind.

“Wait,” she says.

Gaby pulls away and slips out of Illya’s arms, leaving the Russian confused, disappointed, and a little worried.

Illya turns around to see where Gaby has gone, and finds her eagerly pushing a chair towards him.

“Almost forgot,” Gaby says.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

Gaby climbs onto the chair and stands tall, at long last satisfying her desire to tower over the Russian giant. Subconsciously, Illya holds his hands out as if spotting her. Then, his hands settle at her waist. Gaby stares down and he looks up for once. She quite likes this role reversal.

“I’m gloating,” she says with a grin. “I won.”

Illya chuckles. “Yes. It took you years,” he says, shaking his head in mock shame.

Gaby huffs at his teasing but doesn’t back away. “Speak for yourself, my Russian friend. We could have been doing this years ago.”

“Doing what?”

She stares at him for a moment, taking in his features, the way his hair is parted, the eyelashes, the blue irises, the stubble along his jaw.

“Nothing,” she answers.

Gaby doesn’t lift her gaze from Illya as his confused expression turns into one of understanding, and when she finally allows herself to lean in towards his touch, to fall in to him completely, he meets her half way.

 

* * *

 

As Gaby figures out later that day, Napoleon’s gift is a lovely dress. Gaby was standing in front of her mess of a closet at home, a pool of rejected clothes around her. Something drew her to her pile of gifts and she found herself reaching for Napoleon’s blue box.

Now she looks at her reflection in the mirror, at the dress that flatters her body and is suitable for a dinner date. As she puts on the earrings Illya gave her, she wonders how on earth Napoleon could have known.

An hour later, Gaby rings Illya’s doorbell. He invites her in, and the warm, homey feeling of a busy kitchen surrounds her instantly. She sits on the counter, her legs dangling off the edge as she observes as Illya prepare dinner. It’s an unfamiliar sight. She has seen him in deep concentration playing chess, has watched him grade papers at an engagement party because he was bored, and has even sat through one of his lectures because she had the time and she needed to distract Illya while Napoleon prepared the materials for a prank in Illya’s office. She noticed Illya’s work-related habits, but rarely has the chance to see his behavior outside the context of work, and this is a nice change. She rather likes seeing this side of him.

Illya cuts his ingredients methodically, slices vegetables into uniform and thin pieces, and watches the timer attentively. He offers her a cup of tea and they talk while they wait for the food to cook, her sitting on the counter, and him standing close, only taking his eyes off her every now and then to check that the kitchen isn’t on fire.

The kitchen doesn’t burn down. The food is flavorful, and the meal is satisfying in the way that a hearty home cooked meal always is. The conversation comes easily, and they are able to talk mostly about topics besides work for once. Gaby can see the bitter and cold storm on the other side of the windows, but she finds that there has not been a moment when she didn’t feel warm, comfortable, or safe since she walked in the door.

Though Gaby knows she does not have the best relationship, understanding, or definition of the word, when Illya drapes a cozy blanket over her shoulders and she accepts it despite the fact that she knows she won’t be sleeping anytime soon (for reasons entirely unrelated to anxiety or insomnia), and when she shifts closer to him so that the blanket covers his body as well because the blanket was big enough for the two of them and it wouldn’t be fair to have all that warmth to herself, she can’t help but feel that she is at home.


End file.
